


percussion

by thisstableground



Series: palette [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Autistic Character, Canon Era, Character Study, Fluff, Friendship, Light Angst, M/M, Mostly just silly, autistic alex, rated for gratuitous swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 03:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10351068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisstableground/pseuds/thisstableground
Summary: ‘Yo, Laurens, want to help me figure out Burr’s secret emotions?’‘Yes,’ says Laurens immediately. ‘What secret emotions?’‘If I knew that then they wouldn’t be secret, would they?’‘If they’re secret then how do you know they exist?” Laurens counters. “Also, what the fuck are you talking about?’[Alexander is trying to make a connection, John is happy to be dragged along into another incomprehensible situation, and Burr just wants to live his life.][Part of series, can be read alone. Set after Axis if you're following chronologically]





	

**Author's Note:**

> [a/n: forgot about this verse for a while, that’s university life for you. anyway after all the Emotions of the last one, here’s something else. also apparently ive started embracing more modern sounding dialogue compared to the others so hooray for wild inconsistency i guess]

“-But I’m away on a recon mission for the next three days, so you’ll have the tent to yourself at the very least. Peace and quiet,” Mulligan is saying to Burr, giving him a friendly shove.  


“Assuming, of course, that Hamilton has the willpower to refrain from pestering me for all of five minutes,” Burr says, acidly. Mulligan laughs but Alexander, who has only been half-paying attention to the conversation until now, startles back to the present and blinks woundedly at Burr as he ducks into his tent. 

Mulligan goes to follow. Alex pulls him back by the sleeve to whisper, “is he pissed at me or something? I swear, I didn’t even do anything this time. That I’m aware of.”   
  
Alex delights in tormenting Burr just to get a reaction, but if he’s going to upset him, he prefers to do it on purpose.

Mulligan looks faintly surprised. “He was joking, Alex.”

“Oh. Really? How can you tell?”

“I…just can? Couldn’t you?’

“It’s not like he’s easy to figure out by expression alone,” Alex says defensively. “I could throw my ink-pot at him and he’d probably smile, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy.” His face lights up. “Hey-”

“No,” says Mulligan.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“No, we are not throwing things at Burr just to see what face he makes.”

Alex sulks. “ _Laurens_ would’ve said yes.”  


“Laurens says yes to everything, especially if it’s a bad idea. I gotta get moving, kid, but-” he points a warning finger, “- try not to annoy Burr so much that he actually kills you while I’m gone.”  


Alex mumbles out a goodbye, but his mind is already on other matters. The Burr situation is a problem.   
  
Back in the Caribbean, Alex didn’t have friends: they were a luxury he couldn’t afford when he had to spend all his time on his work, and a labyrinth he couldn’t seem to navigate anyway. It was lonely, true, but he always used to tell himself that he’s lived through worse than loneliness. Maybe he even believed it at the time.  
  
Now, though, he likes his brothers-in-arms, he _knows_ them. It’s addictive, and Alex has never been much good at calling things quits while he’s ahead. He likes Burr too, but he never seems to know how to tread around him. Come to think of it, what does he know about Aaron Burr at all? Orphan, yes, intelligent, yes. Good soldier. Nothing intimate, nothing of his personality: the man changes like the winds. Hell, he’s not even sure if their friendship is mutual.

The anxiety of that sudden uncertainty claws at him. Something has to be done.  
  
_Or you could just drop it and stop actively trying to piss him off if you want to be friends,_ _that’d probably be enough_ , says a voice in his head that reminds him a bit of Herc.  
  
“ _Something._ Has to be _done.”_ Alex repeats to himself. This is a great idea.

 

***

 

“Yo, Laurens, want to help me figure out Burr’s secret emotions?”

“Yes,” says Laurens immediately. “What secret emotions?”

“If I knew that then they wouldn’t be secret, would they?”  


“If they’re secret then how do you know they exist?” Laurens counters.“Also, what the fuck are you talking about?’  


Alex flings himself into a chair. “I don’t understand him. I’m doing alright at figuring out everyone else, how it all works and he’s just -“ he waves a hand in front of his own face. “A shapeshifter. I can’t get a read on him if he doesn’t express anything other than what he thinks people want to hear.” 

“If you want him to express himself, you could just monologue at him till he tells you to talk less,” says Laurens. “’S'always worked so far.”  


“That doesn’t tell me anything about Burr _specifically_ , everyone tells me to stop talking all the time. Anyway, he just gets kind of sardonic and irritated, which is basically the natural human state and not an emotion at all, so.”

“Every word of that was so depressing, but okay,” Laurens looks at Alex closely. “Hey, this is really bothering you, isn’t it?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” says Alex, slamming both his elbows down on the desk with unnecessary force and propping his chin on his fists. Laurens raises an eyebrow at him. He sighs. “Fine. Yes. I don’t know, I know it’s stupid, but I want to figure out _something_ genuine about him. He’s so…composed. I’ve never seen him smile like he actually means it or be truly angered. I’ve never even seen him tapping his fingers or biting his nails. I just need something to start from.”

“Alright. So what should we do?” says Laurens.

 

***

 

Alexander’s thoughts are loud and comprise of lists constantly being revised. He imagines his brain to be structured like a library, the organised chaos of pages upon pages of information all filed into careful sections, ready to be located and pulled out whenever needed. This applies to everything from battle strategy to the behavioural patterns of the people he spends time with.   
  
For example:  
  
Alex knows that Lafayette, whenever someone does him a favour, is a babbling torrent of gratitude. For one who struggles often with his words, Lafayette uses a lot of them in both his mother tongue and English, _merci_ and _thank you_ and a thousand variations of _my friend, mon ami, mon petit lion._ Lafayette likes to talk, and is rarely self-conscious about showing appreciation for anything.  
  
Mulligan is less wordy, preferring instead to punch him softly in the arm with a _good job, kid_. Alex enjoys the fact that he has become worthy of so many nicknames, and _kid_ doesn’t stir up the nauseating mixture of pride and denial that wage battle in Alexander’s stomach whenever Washington calls him _son,_ though this is very often the General’s way of conveying the same emotion without deviating too far from the restrictions of propriety. He much prefers when Washington uses his first name. _Thank you, Alex_.

John Laurens tends to whoop loudly and tackle him into a headlock when Alex helps him out or, if a little more decorum is required, holds his fist out to bump their knuckles together. If among friends, he smiles with soft eyes and rests one hand on the back of Alex’s neck. And if it is only the two of them then he will lean in a little closer and -  
  
Well, anyway, he has a lot of information stored under subsection _John Laurens._  
  
Burr, whenever Alex does him a favour, says “thank you, Hamilton” with the exact same polite smile that Alex has seen him use upon countless bartenders and shopkeepers. If Laurens’ place in Alex’s mind is a series of encyclopedias, Burr is three question marks hastily scribbled on a torn-out scrap of paper. He’s ruining the whole system.

 

***

 

(“It’s simple,” says Alex to a dubious-looking Laurens. “We just do a whole load of nice stuff for him tomorrow and since we are, admittedly, almost always awful, he’ll either be overwhelmed with gratitude or at the very least, incredibly surprised. Either way, we get an emotion!”  
  
“Sounds intolerable, but I’m in,” Laurens says, “The things I do for you, Ham.”)  
  
And this they do all day. Alex suppresses the urge to complain about menial tasks that Burr hands off to him, doesn’t pick holes in his arguments just for the fun of it, offers to fetch some papers that Burr has left in his tent. Laurens, always willing to commit to a role, even pours a cup of coffee and slides it over to Burr mid-afternoon, invites him to join them at the inn later on. After each small favour, Burr smiles politely, says “thank you”, nothing more, nothing different. He gives no indication that he’s aware their behaviour has changed.  
  
By the time the day’s end approaches, Alex’s self-control is fading fast. He’s taken to biting the inside of his lips to prevent himself from getting into a nitpicking contest, and he’s now done it so many times that its starting to hurt a little. He surreptitiously runs his tongue over the raw skin while listening to Washington lay out their tasks for the upcoming week.  
  
“…and finally we need someone to take point on scouting ahead for our next encampment soon,” Washington says, already looking towards Alex who is poised to claim it: it’s a job many of them have done before, nothing big, but he takes any opportunity to prove he can do more than write a pretty letter.  
  
“Burr should take it, I need Hamilton here with me to finish the reports of the fever outbreak,” says Laurens, before Alex has the chance. On second thought, perhaps Laurens commits a little _too_ much. Though as Burr and Washington both swivel their heads towards him, Alex reluctantly admits to himself that if this doesn’t elicit some kind of response then he doesn’t know what would.  
  
“I agree, Burr would be best suited to the task,” he grinds out, almost sounding sincere. Washington somehow manages to blink hard, frown and raise his eyebrows in the same facial expression. And Burr….  
  
“Thank you, Hamilton. If you are in agreement, sir, I shall make preparations to leave the morning after next.”  
  
_Oh, come_ ** _on._**  
  
“Very good, Burr, see that it’s done. You may take your leave, gentlemen,” says Washington, standing and striding over to pull the tent-flap open. The three aides-de-camp gather their things and say their goodbyes, walking into the cool breeze of early evening.  
  
“The man is a human etiquette book,” Alex complains quietly to Laurens once they have a little distance from the tent. “We’ve been doing this all day, and _nothing_.”  
  
“Not exactly nothing,” says Laurens. “Pretty sure Washington thinks we’re plotting a murder now.”  
  
As one, they crane their heads to look at Washington, back at the entrance of his tent. He’s staring after them with folded arms, and they don’t need see his face clearly to know that his eyes are narrowed. They quickly snap back to face the other way.  
  
“Yeah, we should stop,” agrees Alex. “Well, that was an abject failure, what’s the next move?”  
  
Laurens shushes him and then raises his voice a little as Burr approaches. “Aaron Burr!”  
  
“Sir!” Alex chimes in.  
  
“Laurens, Hamilton,” Burr greets them. “Still on for that drink tonight?”  
  
“Have you ever known me to answer that question with a no?” says Laurens. “Oh, shit, but me and Alexander just have to run to our tent real quick and check with Laf about those uniform requests we’re sending out, how about we meet you at the inn?

“Okay then,” says Burr, at the same time as Alex says “No we don’t, I f-”   
  
Laurens grabs Alex’s arm and starts to drag him away. “Just finalising some numbers, very urgent, don’t want our boys running short of coats, won’t take two seconds Burr byeee,” he yells over his shoulder. He pulls Alex into their tent, which is in fact devoid of Lafayette, then shakes his head. “You’re hopeless at this, Ham. Thank God nobody ever asked you to be a spy.”

“I could be a spy!” protests Alex, despite the fact that he’s not actually sure what just happened. “And I _finished_ that letter about the uniforms."

“Hopeless,” Laurens repeats. “Look, I hate when I’m expecting someone and they keep me waiting around, don’t you?"  
  
“ _I_ hate when I get bodily dragged around the camp by an idiot speaking in riddles,” says Alex, folding his arms and letting his fingers beat a restless rhythm against his upper arms. “We could be there trying to figure out - _oh_ , wait, I get it. That’s clever.”  
  
“Hey, being nice might’ve been a bust but if you want Burr to tap his fingers, I’ll damn well get Burr to tap his fingers,” John says, with an exaggerated bow. He meets Alex’s eyes as he straightens back up. “Now…what to do while we wait, I wonder?”  
  
Laurens closes his hand back round Alex’s wrist, thumb resting gently over Alex’s pulse point. There’s a very specific smile tugging one side of his mouth. Some quick crossreferencing through subsection _John Laurens_ flickers through Alex’s head, helpfully waving its results at him.  
  
“Oh,” says Alex, faintly.

 

***

 

Alex knows this: Lafayette, when he is impatient (which is often) makes sure that everyone around him knows it, all but yelling it at regular intervals just in case anybody somehow forgets. Mulligan only ever gets impatient about incredibly unimportant things, and the less important the more vile and creative his swearing becomes. The General has a way of looming and exhaling pointedly that manages to turn most of the younger recruits into trembling messes.  
  
When Laurens is forced to wait beyond his limits, he comes up with games designed to annoy everyone around him, flicking pieces of paper into their inkwells or attempting to steal items off their desks without being caught. When Alex is working way past hours and Laurens is bored of waiting for him to pay attention to him, he has a subtle way of almost imperceptibly leaning further into his personal space until it seems that all of a sudden his face is only inches away from Alex’s own without ever having moved.

Alex has never seen Burr get impatient. Burr is far too good at waiting. 

They get to the inn some forty minutes later than planned and saunter in as casually as possible. “Aw, _what_ ,” murmurs Laurens as he spots Burr, chatting away to another patron at an adjacent table and looking thoroughly unbothered by their lateness.  


“Damn,” hisses Alex. “ _That_ was pointless, then.”  
  
“Um,” says Laurens, indignant.  
  
“You know what I mean.”  
  
They slide into the seats opposite Burr, Laurens holding up three fingers at the bartender to order a round of drinks.

“You took your time,” Burr says mildly. Because of course he says it mildly. Because everything he does is mild. Alex could scream.  
  
“War ain’t gonna wait for me to get the beers in first, Burr, more’s the pity,” says Laurens.

Laurens and Burr fall into easy conversation. As they get through more beers Laurens seems to lose track of their initial goal, jibing good-naturedly at Burr and laughing at his deadpan responses like he always does. Alex finds himself getting louder and more abrasive as if to make up for it. The ale isn’t helping. Laurens rests a hand on his leg briefly at one point, either to calm him down or just to stop him jiggling it or both. _I know,_ Alex wants to say. _I’m talking too loud, I’m moving too much, I’m seriously overinvested in this whole ridiculous thing. I do **know** , I just can’t stop myself._

They talk about the war and the camp and the general. Alex pokes and prods at every sentence, hating how harsh he sounds, hating how little control he feels over himself. Burr deflects it all, a mirror under sunlight.  
  
They’re on the subject of colleges, Burr’s Princeton graduation and Alex’s failed attempt to do the same when Alex hears what’s coming out of his mouth before he has chance to think about it: “- though of course, not all of us orphans were lucky enough to lose our parents in such a convenient place as to accelerate us through education-“

He cuts himself off, wide-eyed. Laurens hand shoots out and lands back on his leg almost painfully, a warning come too late that he’s crossing a line. _Shit._ That’s not what he meant to say at all.  
  
Burr stays silent for a long, horrible moment. Then he drains the last of beer, drops a few coins on the table and says “I believe I’ve had enough for the evening.” He fixes his eyes on Alex. “More than enough, in fact. Gentlemen.”  
  
With a curt nod, he leaves. Laurens whistles quietly. “ _Jesus_ , Alexander.”  
  
“I didn’t mean to-“  
  
“I know,” says Laurens. “Still. Maybe time to let this one go, hm? You know as well as I do he’s got real feelings under there, I just don’t think we’ve got the skill to bring them out without some collateral damage.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Oh, don’t get all maudlin about it.” He holds Alex’s coat out to him. “You know he always forgives you if you apologise properly.”

“I don’t know that, though,” Alex says, miserably. “I don’t know anything about him. Maybe he’s been making a comprehensive list of all the times I run my mouth off like an _idiot_ in a huge book called Alexander’s Mistakes and then one day he’ll crush me to death with it in revenge.”  
  
“That’s more _your_ style. Come on, let’s catch him up.”

They’re only a few steps outside the inn when Laurens stops Alex short with a hand on his chest. A few metres ahead, wreathed in shadow, Burr stands talking in low tones to some stranger. Burr’s voice is as steady as ever: the person he’s talking to has an edge that sets off tingles through Alex’s instincts. The conversation drifts into earshot as they approach.  
  
“- know you’ve got money, you think I can’t see those fancy clothes? I’m warning you, I’m armed!”  
  
“Congratulations,” Burr says, dryly. “Nevertheless, I suggest you move on. I’m hardly in the mood this evening.”  
  
The man is really too drunk to be threatening, wavering in front of Burr with a small-ish knife in one hand. Burr looks devastatingly unimpressed. He could probably deal with this guy quite literally single-handedly, but Alex and Laurens position themselves on either side of him nevertheless.  
  
“Is there a problem here, boys?’ Laurens asks, leaning a friendly arm on Burr’s shoulder. The movement shifts his coat just enough to reveal the gun at his hip. The man’s gaze drifts from the pistol to Alex, who grins at him. It’s all teeth.

With one final glance at Burr, who simply stares coolly back, the guy sags despondently. “Aw, fuck it,” he says, and takes to his heels.

Laurens takes his arm off Burr’s shoulder and bumps him with his elbow. “All good?”  
  
“I’m fine. Thanks for the help. Shall we go?”  
  
The intonation is exactly the same as when he thanked Laurens for bringing him coffee earlier that day. He even starts making small talk about the weather as they walk home, as though neither the tense moment at the inn nor the attempting mugging had even happened. Alexander mouths “what the hell” at Laurens behind Burr’s back. Laurens just shrugs.

 

***

 

Lafayette is in their tent and already asleep when they return, only visible as a halo of curls poking out from under a mess of blankets. The night is chill: Alex and John - _Laurens_ the rest of the time but always _John_ here, like this - curl around each other for warmth.

John’s already drifting, but just before he falls asleep he says, “don’t overthink it, Alex.”

Alex twists one of John’s curls around his fingers, and overthinks it.

“ _Lucky enough to lose our parents in such a” - **God**. You of all people should know better, Hamilton_.

He hates when he does shit like this. What’s the point of all the effort, all the energy he puts into learning everyone as carefully as he does, when it’s inevitable that he’ll mess it up with no effort whatsoever?   
  
When John is angry he makes incomprehensible noises, punches things - people, sometimes, but usually desks or walls or anything. When Mulligan is angry he smiles, wild and hungry. Lafayette leans in close to whisper biting comments with a sharp laugh.  
  
When Burr is angry he says goodnight like nothing has happened, tells a guy with a knife that he’s “not in the mood”. When Burr is angry he makes no sense.  
  
Fucking _Burr_.  
  
He thinks of how he earlier compared Burr to an unwritten book in the library, to light bouncing off a mirror. Revises the metaphor: not glass but ice, a frozen pond on which Alex is trying to dance. With everyone else, on solid ground, he learns the motions and as long as everyone sticks to the same steps every time, he won’t trip. With Burr, there’s only a slippery surface: no footholds, nowhere to step sure, no indication of what lies underneath.  
  
Alex hates drinking. Or rather, he hates the feeling of sobriety creeping back in: his thoughts are muted in inebriation and their normal volume seems even louder afterwards. The whole world seems to compete for his attention. The bed is too dishevelled, he can feel every crease and wrinkle in the thin sheet tucked around him. John’s hair is tickling his arm. The smell of campfire smoke hangs heavy in the air - as always, he resolutely ignores the misplaced voice of panic in his head ( _ship’s on fire, ship’s going to burn, get out, get out!_ ). If he gave any leeway to sense memory he’d be recalling near-death experiences every time he so much as inhaled, and who has the time to waste on that? He’s ignoring it and it’s fine.  
  
The noise is worse.  
  
Anyone else might call the camp silent by night, but the sleep-breathing of his tentmates is loud as a bellows, the gentle breeze shrieks. Alex’s heartbeat is speeding up, his breath coming slightly too fast, and he can hear that too. It’s unbearable. How do they sleep through it? How does anyone ever sleep through anything? There’s a fever-heat on the side of his arm that John is pressed into ( _Body heat, not fever,_ he tells himself, _John is breathing, John is not ill, it’s fine_ ). He can smell burning and taste seawater, and night-time is a cacophony. Distant creatures footsteps echo like gunshots and there’s…wait, what the hell _is_ that?

His racing thoughts stutter to a stop as he catches a sound, barely even noticeable, a tapping as of something on wood. The rhythm more than anything is what catches his attention, fast and deliberate. Now it’s all he can think of. _The only thing worse than a distant background noise_ , Alex thinks, _is a distant and **unidentifiable** background noise._

Careful not to disturb John as he leaves the bed, Alex slips into his boots and out of the tent towards the source of the noise. He doesn't have to go far: it’s coming from Burr’s tent, right next to his own. Now that he’s closer he can pick out the details. The tapping sound, but underneath it a sound like strange drums, like clicks and hisses.

He should make his presence known, he’s been impolite enough to Burr today, but instead he pokes his head quietly inside. Mulligan’s bed, of course, lies empty. Burr is not in his own bed but instead is sat at the desk, eyes closed, drumming one hand against the table in a fast rhythm. The other hand is raised to his mouth where he’s making a host of repetitive, percussive noises. His head nods in time to the beat. It…actually, it sounds pretty great. 

Alex has no idea how to react to this. 

And then Burr turns around, spots Alex hanging dumbstruck in the entrance of his tent, and freezes.For once, both of them are lost for words. “Um,” Burr says.  
  
“Uh,” Alex replies. Before they hold a whole conversation via baffled non-language, his brain kicks into its default accusatory mode, and he storms over to the desk. “Just what the fuck was that?” he demands, more sharply than necessary.  
  
“It…was drums, I suppose? Of a sort?” says Burr, slowly. “…uh, why are you so angry about it?”  
  
“I’m not! It was awesome! I’m just wondering at the fact we spent a whole day trying to figure out whether you, you know, have anything that’s not you just putting on the charm for the world, and it turns out you’ve had this secret amazing mouth-drum habit this whole time. It’s a lot to take in.”  
  
“It’s hardly a _habit_. If you must know, I’ve always enjoyed music, but one can’t exactly drag a grand piano round a soldier’s encampment and singing at this hour would- wait, _that’s_ why you and Laurens were behaving so oddly today?”

Alex shuffles his feet, suddenly ashamed. “Ye-ees…well, but look, I don’t know anything about you! We’ve been here for _weeks_ and I know how Mulligan always hums when he’s happy or how Laurens always screws up little bits of paper when he’s thinking or - and I mean, I’m always doing all kinds of shit with my hands and everyone’s used to it, but you don’t have any of that! You always just smile placidly at everything and talk without telling us anything and never even twiddle your goddamn thumbs no matter what! We - no, it wasn’t really anything to do with Laurens - _I_ just wanted to get something out of you that was all Burr. Something other than ‘talk less’, I mean.” He thinks about it for a second. “I’m sorry,” he adds, not entirely sure what he’s apologising for but feeling like it’s definitely needed. Burr stares at him.

“Good Lord. Did it really not occur to you that perhaps I simply don't feel the _need_ to fidget and fuss with every object in arms reach?”  
  
It hadn’t in fact occurred to Alex, who has been idly twirling one of Burr’s quills between his fingers while they speak, that anyone could possibly _not_ lose their minds without the comfort of constant motion. Though he’s heard _sit still_ almost as often as he’s heard _be quiet_. Clearly neither lesson stuck very well. He tries to put the quill down as subtly as possible and tucks his hands into his pockets with an inexplicable twinge of hurt.  
  
“I didn’t mean it as an insult, Alexander,” Burr says. Sometimes Alex wishes he himself was a little _less_ of an open book. “I only meant that you have your ways and I have mine. You fidget, I do not, that’s how we are. I have no desire to change that. Nor do I intend to air my own private issues or emotions just to satisfy idle curiosity. We all have parts of ourselves that we choose not to share with the public.”  
  
Alex drops his gaze to the floor, wincing. That’s certainly true, in more ways than Burr could possibly imagine. “You’re right. It’s not my place to pry. I forgot myself.” He takes a deep breath. “And I shouldn’t have said what I did earlier, either, I know better than that. It was disrespectful and thoughtless and you didn’t deserve that. I really am sorry. I can only beg forgiveness and…and hope this doesn’t change the friendship between us?”  
  
He rushes through the apology uncomfortably, but the sentiment is entirely honest this time. Though he can’t deny that he’s fishing just a little with that last part. He has to _know_ , okay?  
  
Burr looks as though he knows precisely what Alex is doing.  
  
“We are still, I suppose, friends, Colonel Hamilton,” he says. His words are begrudging, but the very first genuine smile Alex has ever seen him wear spreads reluctantly across Burr’s face.  
  
It really is a shame he doesn’t wear it more often, Alex notes. It suits him. He beams at Burr in relief. “Good! Great! I’ll leave you to your, uh, percussion section or whatever then.”  
  
He heads towards the exit, but hesitates a moment, playing with the material of the tent-flap, feeling uncharacteristically shy.  
  
“Alexander. Was there something else you wanted?”

“Can…can you teach me how to do the drum thing? It really did sound good.”

Burr sighs long-sufferingly, but the smile is playing around the corners of his eyes as he waves Alex back into the tent. There’s still not enough to fill a book in subsection _Aaron Burr_ of Alex’s internal library, but he has enough for a few lines. It’s a start.  
  
See, this _was_ a great idea, Alex tells himself. God, he loves it when he’s right.

**Author's Note:**

> [a/n: aka the author takes the tiniest of baby-steps towards learning how to write conflict. i get u alex, people are so difficult
> 
> open to prompts though no promise that it wont take me eight years to fill them.
> 
> come talk to me about secret beatboxer aaron burr at thisstableground on tumblr.]
> 
>  
> 
> [also, i really love that a few autistic people seem to have commented on the first 2 installments and said that it resonates with them, you guys are great, feel free to come start conversations about autistic headcanons with me on tumblr because i never get tired of talking about it]


End file.
